Rain had a way of romanticizing the city, smudging the sharp edges of sidewalks and soaking neon signs into watercolor. Andres stood beneath the overhang of a bookstore in Brooklyn Heights, black coat slick with mist, umbrella untouched by his side.
He checked the time.
8:46 p.m.
Right on schedule.
Across the street, a small recital hall buzzed with polite conversation. The event was already over—he hadn't gone in. He'd known she would be performing. He'd known what time she would leave. Everything was already mapped out.
She stepped out alone.
Thana Vale.
A charcoal gray coat, violin case slung over her shoulder despite being a pianist — a detail he had discovered and committed to memory. She must teach or collaborate. He'd find out. For now, he just watched her pause on the sidewalk, glancing up at the sky.
And then he crossed.
He didn't speak at first, just walked a little too fast, timed it perfectly so that he passed her shoulder at the exact moment her umbrella slipped sideways.
It was a small stumble. He caught her elbow.
"Oh," she said, startled.
"Careful," Andres said, soft, reassuring. "Rain makes this city treacherous."
Thana smiled faintly. "Not a fan of poetic danger?"
"Only when I write it."
She blinked. Something flickered behind her eyes—amusement or suspicion, he couldn't tell. But she didn't move away.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm usually not this clumsy."
"I'm Andres."
A pause.
Then, finally, "Thana."
"Beautiful name."
She smiled—polite, guarded. Not like the other women who softened immediately under his gaze. Thana's smile was deliberate. Held at a distance.
Andres liked that.
"Do you always catch strangers outside of music halls?" she asked.
"Only the interesting ones," he replied. "Were you performing?"
"I was."
"You play piano."
"You knew that?"
Andres offered a disarming shrug. "Lucky guess."
A beat passed.
Thana glanced down at the puddle pooling near her feet. "I should go."
"Let me walk you to the train."
"I'm not headed to the train."
"Then let me walk you wherever you're going."
She hesitated—but only for a moment. Then: "Alright."
They walked in silence for a block, rain hissing in the gutters, their footsteps soft. Andres didn't push. He never did. He let the quiet do the work.
"What do you write?" she asked finally.
"Thrillers. Crime fiction. The kind of stories that make people double-lock their doors."
She stopped walking.
"Wait," she said, turning to him. "Nightwinn? Andres Nightwinn?"
He smiled modestly. "Guilty."
"You're the one with the Violent Muse series. My sister reads your books. Swears you're some kind of genius."
"And you?"
"I don't read much crime fiction."
He gave a low chuckle. "Maybe I'll change your mind."
She studied him again—darker this time. More analytical. Like she was playing her own game.
"You look different from your author photos," she said.
"In a good way?"
"In a dangerous way."
They stood beneath a flickering lamppost. The moment felt suspended—wet air, shared glances, something unspoken between them.
"I like danger," Andres said.
Thana tilted her head, still smiling, but her eyes stayed sharp.
"Then you'll love me."